


Fall in to Dark Devotion

by dogtit



Series: Patreon Fics [3]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, The Witch Is Not A Nice Person, witch-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-15 20:35:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12328410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogtit/pseuds/dogtit
Summary: It's been three hundred years, right down to the day. Now the Witch is back, and there'sHellto pay...Or; The Witch tries her best, doesn't succeed, but at least she can get some helpful criticism along the way.





	Fall in to Dark Devotion

**Author's Note:**

> titles the fic based on one good halloween song; makes the summary from another. The September prompt from patreon, only....lightly tweaked......and if you want to learn more about this support check out the info at dogtit.tumblr.com/patreon
> 
> ANYWAY HOW ABOUT THOSE SKINS HUH!!!!!

How hard could it possibly be to claim the castle of Lord Eichenwalde? 

The Witch of the Wild had thought it an easy enough endeavor. It, in fact, seemed laughable, as the human lord had few soldiers that were not already within her book of Debts and his township was poor, crumbling, humble as humans were wont to be. She had seen no problem in aiding the mad Doctor Junkenstein with his revenge and his thirst for bastardized life, considering he had so eagerly traded his sin heavy soul for it. 

How hard could it be, she had thought. 

Even though the lord had reached out beyond his kingdom, begged for and received the help of strangers to the land, the Witch had not been worried. All of Man had things they desired, and all desires had a price; the Witch herself knew this all too well. 

She had not counted on the Soldier wanting the death of her prized Reaper. She had not counted on the Gunslinger finding no issue with his steel and magic arm. The Archer who valued his own sense of honor and redemption over the whereabouts of his living kin; the Alchemist who paid no heed to her withered eye. 

 _Perhaps I should have told her what became of her daughter_ , thought the Witch sourly as she carried her souls and ran for the depths of the woods _._

For a year she had stewed in her own humiliation, hiding and recovering. Her Reaper would never truly be put to rest; only a holy man could settle the creature’s debts, and the Witch had no intention of letting him near the churches or holy ground. 

She rebuilt him, as best she could. Gave him a cold body, with fangs, and eyes, and a mask instead of pumpkin heads that spewed fire; a Dracula was always far more deadly. She twisted Junkenstein’s soul for a few months, letting him  _feel_  the bitterness of her own fury before she resurrected him as well. The Doctor re-cobbled his own creation once more, as the Witch had no true claim on the soul of  _that_  erstwhile monster. 

And so, the month before the anniversary of her own defeat, the Witch reached deep into her book of Debts and searched. The Time Traveler, with a clockwork heart and unusual powers–annoying, and fast, but not enough, and her soul was too good and kind to bring in for matters of war. Perhaps the childish Gamesmaster and her enormous machines would be a fine enemy for Eichenwalde to defend against–but the Witch could not trust the girl as far as she could be thrown. 

She turned pages, gnawed her nails. The Witch thought of summoning the preserved body of the Alchemist’s daughter to let the old woman see what had become of her offspring, but the Witch again discarded that. The Possessed was a fine enough creation, and her payment had been her eternal loyalties for her life, but the Witch was, perhaps, too fond of her to set her out so soon.

But that did give her another thought. She flipped through her pages and came upon a ritual of blood and fire and ash, and could not hide her smile. The Summoner; a dragoness from a Hell that the Witch had never been to, but had crossed paths with many centuries ago. They’d struck up an accord, and the Summoner had shared her rituals;  _You may not have me, Witch, but should you require the assistance of a competent ally…I will assist you_. 

The ritual was quick, clean, orderly. A symmetrical circle in ash and the crushed bones of a newborn bird, mixed with the Witch’s own blood and a helping of magic had called out to the Summoner; and so the dragoness had answered. Finally, thought the Witch, she would have her  _own_  revenge.

And, again, the Witch’s hubris came back to eliminate her. She had not counted on  _four_  new faces to defend that damned lord’s shambling home. The Countess with a dark secret she hid even from her companions but could not hide when she smiled with fang and eyes of blood. The Monk cast from his order, flinging magics of healing and disease. The Swordsman with an artificial body and a human heart, searching for his brother; and the Viking with his inventions and molten rage. 

Her Dracula had fallen. Junkenstein had fallen. The Monster? What else.  _Fallen_. 

The Witch herself had been defeated, bloodied, and the Countess had tasted of her blood; it was only a matter of time before the Witch was claimed by the dastardly woman. And then the Summoner had burst into action, picking up the Witch and flinging through a portal of hellfire and then they were just outside of the Witch’s cabin, hurrying through wards and into the safety of her concealment charms. 

“Gods be damned,” the Witch hissed as the Summoner jostled them down the stairs. “Defeated…again…!” 

“T’is the bane of all humans,” said the Summoner, laying the Witch out on the worktable after using a wing to sweep it clear of parchment, quills, and chalk. “To think you are mightier than you are.” 

The Witch bared her teeth. “Hold your  _tongue_. I am not like those humans–”

“Are you not?” The Summoner bared her own fangs back. “You came bearing the same assortment of fools you first attacked with, thinking that because you knew your enemy you were prepared. That because you had  _one_  more body to throw upon the fire, that you would find victory. Where was your plan? Where was the  _order_?“

A deep, emotional growl bellowed through the dragoness’s chest, rumbling like thunder. Her eyes and the scales upon her torso glowed bright with inner fire, smoke trailing from her nose upon the exhale. 

Chastised into silence, and caught off guard by her beauty, the Witch simply stared, agog, and fought hard for her wits. But her body was weak, her spirit weaker still, and she simply lay back down, closing her eyes. Her heart was racing and her palms were shaking; she had little magic left to her after the disastrous Hallow’s Eve night. 

“You had none,” said the Summoner to execute the pregnant pause, “and that is why you lost. But…” 

Claws, hot as flame but tender as the hearth the Witch had once been raised beside, dragged over her jaw. The Witch’s eyes snapped open and she sucked in a breath, tasting ash on her tongue as the Summoner leaned ever closer. 

“There is always next year,” the dragoness breathed. “Hallow’s Eve is when you are strongest, is it not?”

“Y…” The Witch swallowed. “Yes.” 

“You will not be able to summon me ‘til the next eve…” 

“I,” the Witch stammered, “don’t think so, no. It will be much work to revive the Reaper once more…” 

“Let him rest for now,” said the Summoner. “Call upon those others who owe you much. Conserve your strength.” 

The Witch could only nod as those wicked claws continued to pet her sweaty skin, leave smudged, black trails of soot. 

“You will need most of it for the rest of this night,” said the Summoner, wrapping a hand around the Witch’s pale neck and squeezing, only just, only for the Witch to feel all the strength of dragonfire pulsing beneath scales and flesh. “There is the matter of payment between us.” 

“Payment–” The Witch’s eyes narrowed. “The contract was sealed in my blood, and my magic was price enough–”

“To simply summon me to this world, yes. But my services are another matter. As is the life debt you owe me. Relax,” cooed the Summoner at the Witch’s thunderstruck expression, “I have no need for your soul or your powers. They are worthless to me. No…I will have your body for this night, Witch.”

“Oh–” And at another gentle squeeze, the Witch gasped, “ _Oh._ ”

“’Oh’, indeed.” The Summoner licked her lips. “Arrogant human…I will put you in your place.”  

When morning broke and the Witch rose from the table–streaked in cinders and lingering marks of sharp teeth, her body still tingling even hours later–she greeted the new day with a clear mind, an unburdened heart, and a pulsing well of magic neverending. As she went once more to her great book of Debts, she gazed across the pages and souls in her possession, and grinned. 

 _“My servants,”_ whispered the Witch as she wrapped her magic around her first prize, and pulled them from the other side, _“never die.”_


End file.
